Tuesday, October 31, 2017

What happens
when the legend of the old west becomes the new reality? In Mary Billiter’s fun
novel of investigating the unknown and navigating love, a drop-dead sexy cop
and a fiery redhead are linked by a mysterious haunting and the unsolved crime
of passion behind it all.

When Reese Pemberton relocates from the Golden State to the Cowboy
State for a corporate promotion, she discovers a different state of mind. From
the hustle and bustle mayhem of the Bay Area to the slow and easy meanderings
of Wyoming, Reese welcomes the change in pace as the hotel’s new general
manager. However, she shuts the door on the notion that her hotel is haunted.

But when a series of mishaps introduces the fiery redhead to the
hotel’s legendary cowboy ghost, she begins to question the events surrounding
his demise.

Reese and Cheyenne police detective Cody Pring join forces to put to
rest the spirit that haunts the hotel. In the process, they discover
long-buried secrets. Can the two solve a decades-old mystery or are some things
better left with the dead?

Mary Billiter is a weekly newspaper columnist and fiction
author. She also has novels published under the pen name, “Pumpkin Spice.”

Mary resides in the Cowboy State with her unabashedly bald
husband, her four amazing children, two fantastic step-kids, and their runaway
dog. She does her best writing (in her head) on her daily runs in wild,
romantic, beautiful Wyoming.

He’s got every reason to be cocky . . . until a female
cuts him down to size.

I’m Dallas Easton, the best goaltender in the league. I make a damn good living
playing hockey, and with women falling at my feet wherever I go, why not enjoy
it? I get whatever I want, whenever I want—that is, until I come across the one
player who gets the best of me on the ice.

When I try to pummel the dude, all hell breaks loose. Imagine my surprise when
the helmet comes off to reveal a woman underneath. And not just any woman, but
the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Callie Davis is the complete opposite of the
puck bunnies I usually go for, a good girl with sick moves and a selfless
streak a mile wide. I need to make amends, but she dodges me at every turn. It
doesn’t help that Callie’s brother hates my guts, or that my agent thinks she’s
bad for my career.

But I could care less what they think. I can’t let our little run-in on the ice
be the end of our story. Because when I set my sights on something, I won’t
rest until I score.

Heart pounding, I
stared him down, waiting for him to take the shot. The second he drew back his
stick, I got into position, only for him to hit me right between the eyes with
his glove. For a split second I lost my focus, and he slapped the puck right between
my legs.

“Motherfucker,” I
growled, glaring down at the glove on the ice and the puck in the goal. The
worthless cunt actually had the audacity to throw his glove at my face. Kellan
burst out laughing and the whole rink echoed as they cheered at my expense. Red
just fucked up big time.

The others tried
their luck to no avail, and then Red was back at it. I waited for him to throw
the other glove, but instead, he turned and sprayed ice right up into my face,
his body colliding with mine. During our fall, he hit the puck right into the
goal. Rage coursed through my veins and all I could see was red . . .
literally. Getting up quickly, he started back toward the others and I slid out
my stick, hooking it around his ankle. I jerked him back and he fell. If he
wanted to play dirty, I’d show him how dirty I could be. He tried to get up,
but I pushed him back down, tossing my mask and gloves onto the ice. The others
shouted and skated toward us, but I wasn’t letting Red get away with making me
out to be a fool.

“Think you’re hot
shit now, huh?” I spat, grabbing him by the jersey. He was smaller than me, so
it wasn’t hard to flip him over and rip off his mask. Blinded by rage, I pulled
my fist back, only to stop cold in my tracks. I stared at the face behind the
mask, completely transfixed.

The person lying on
the ice wasn’t Justin’s brother. It was a woman, and not just any woman. She
was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Before any words could escape my
lips, Justin tackled me to the ice and my breath whooshed out of my lungs as we
slid to the wall.

Catching my breath,
I looked up at him and held up my hands. “I didn’t know it was a female. I
wouldn’t have touched her if I’d known.” Under most circumstances, I’d have
punched him and been done, but I felt like a tool.

His nostrils flared.
“You’re such a prick.”

“Justin,” his sister
called out. We both looked over at her as Kellan and the other two guys helped
her up. They all stared daggers at me, including her. “Let’s go.”

Justin pushed off of
me and skated over to her. I got one last look at her angelic face and emerald
green eyes before she turned around and disappeared off the ice.

New York Times and USA Today bestselling
author L. P. Dover is a
southern belle living in North Carolina with her husband and two beautiful
girls. Before she began her literary journey she worked in periodontics,
enjoying the wonderment of dental surgeries.

She loves to write,
but she also loves to play tennis, go on mountain hikes and white water
rafting, and has a passion for singing. Her two youngest fans expect a concert
each and every night before bedtime, usually Christmas carols.

Dover has written
countless novels, including her Forever Fae series, the Second Chances series,
the Gloves Off series, the Armed & Dangerous series, the Royal Shifters
series, the Society X series, the Circle of Justice series, and her standalone
novel Love, Lies, and Deception. Her favorite genre to read and write is
romantic suspense, but if she got to choose a setting in which to live, it
would be with her faeries in the Land of the Fae.

Zoë Whitmore is in love with her best friend, but haunting
memories and a guilty conscious have been holding her back from letting her be
with him.

Owen Stevenson is unknowingly paying for the sins of his father. He doesn't
understand why Zoë can't look at him for more than a few seconds or why his
touch is unsettling at times. All he's ever wanted was to love her, to protect
her, and to be hers, but it's not so easy.

She pushes, he pulls.
She hurts, he loves.

Both are holding onto ghosts of their pasts and in order for them to peruse a
relationship they'll have to let them go.

Briana Pacheco is the author of New Adult novels (DON'T LET
ME FALL, SOUNDS OF YESTERDAY, A SKY FULL OF SECRETS, and LET HER GO), a twin, a
dreamer, a tattoo lover, easily swooned by accents, and a little bit of an
extrovert but a whole lot of introvert. When she’s not reading, writing or
people watching, she can be found listening to music, perfecting resting bitch
face, or at Dunkin’ Donuts.

Synopsis

Renascence (rēˈnasns)
The revival of something that has been dormant.

***EMILY*** I’m going to make all your fantasies come true. If anyone could fulfill that promise, it’s Venom, the hot biker who made it. He’s crude, crass, and has a filthy mouth, but I’m drawn to him. After everything I’ve been through, the arrangement he offers seems to be exactly what I need. What I didn’t expect is for him to be the answer to my prayers, healing me in ways I never thought possible. He awakens something in me I thought long dead. Will he ever want more, or am I fooling myself by thinking he could settle for someone like me? ***VENOM*** I wanted Emily the moment I saw her. All I could imagine was what I’d do to her if I got her in my bed. The more I get to know her, the more I see how deep her wounds are. She’s fragile. As much as I crave her body, bringing her into my world could break her, and not just emotionally. I can’t let that happen. I won’t. Men like me don’t get a happily ever after. Emily is better off without me, and I pray she doesn’t learn that the hard way.

Giveaway

Playlist

About the Author

Alana Sapphire has a great love for writing and music, and always finds a way to combine the two. Her books, though in various subcategories, are all in the Erotic Romance genre. Like a little suspense with your romance? So does Alana! Pick up one of her books and you’ll get romance, suspense, drama, and lots of sexy time. With books ranging from MC to paranormal, an Alana story is out there for you. Her characters are like old friends—near and dear to her heart—and she hopes for her readers to enjoy them as much as she does.

After breaking free from a bad marriage, I found a different
kind of freedom with the purchase of my first motorcycle. Only my ex, a
powerful man with deep connections and the worst kind of temper, isn’t ready to
let me go.

When a massive biker steps in to save me, I realize the
beautiful stranger may be my only hope of survival. But I know his type, and he
may be exactly like the man I’m trying to escape.

Ranger

As a former Marine-turned-vice-president of the Inferno
Glory MC, I’ve seen it all. With a dark past that caused immeasurable amounts
of pain, I’m fiercely protective of everyone I care about—including the
gorgeous brunette I rescued from her abusive ex.

When Kyla accepts my offer to keep her safe, it
inadvertently starts a war between the mafia and Inferno Glory MC. But I’ve
never been the type to back down from anything, and I’m ready to do whatever
it takes to keep Kyla safe, even if it means putting my own life on the
line.

Warning: This story involves steamy sex with multiple
partners and tattooed alpha bikers. If you’re looking for a hot and dirty ride,
this is your series.

Jennifer Ann is an award-winning and bestselling author of
contemporary romance with darkly complex plots. Much like her characters, she's
in love with the city of New York, trips on airplanes or the back of her
husband's Harley, and everything rock and roll.

Technically, I bought the company she works
for. Point is, she cost me my two best friends ten years ago. It’s payback
time, and I’m going to make her life hell.

When I’m not banging her silly and myself
stupid.

I need to get my head back in business,
because getting off is great, but He was a man who had sex, and lots of it,
and in the worst locations, with the woman of his nightmares isn’t the
inscription I want on my tombstone.

Mostly I hate Chase Jett. It’s been ten years
since he took my virginity—I’d make a bratwurst joke, but the unfortunate truth
is that it would have to be a bratbest joke, which also pisses me off—and now
he’s not only a billionaire, he’s also my new boss.

Turns out our hate is mutual. And this kind of
hate is horrifically twisted, filthy, and banging hot.

Ambrosia
May Berger is standing in the elevator bank, peering up at the numbers. She
hiccups again. I stop beside her and watch her eyes go wide, then narrow, then
cross. Mirrored elevator doors are possibly the second greatest invention known
to man.

First, of
course, is the internet.

I stare at
Bro in the door mirror.

She stares
back.

For all the
shit she gave me growing up, I always respected her spine. As much as one can respect something that infuriating.
She got away with everything. Even when she was reckless.

I can
honestly say no woman I’ve been with since her has ever tried to make a break
for it in the Bratwurst Wagon.

As long as
I block out the month that followed, I can think of the Bratwurst Wagon with a
smile.

“Working
late or coming in early?” I ask.

“The hogs
are mating again,” she replies.

The world
believes this woman to be a sane, competent adult. Mind-boggling.

“Do you
always wait in elevator banks for women you want to harass?” she asks.

“Only when
I’ve gotten bored staking out the bathrooms.” I reach over and hit the up button, because she hasn’t. “Do you
always assume the elevators can read your mind?”

“They were
doing better than you. I didn’t want to go up.”

“And you’re
standing here because…?”

“It’s my
thinking spot.”

“It’s 3 AM
on a Wednesday morning.”

“Do you see
me judging you on wanting to use an elevator at 3 AM on a Wednesday morning?
No, you don’t. So why do you have to judge me for wanting to think in an
elevator bank at 3 AM? Hmmmmmm?” The hum trills up on the end, right in time
with her swiveling to face me. She squints one eye, then the other, before
scrunching her face, pointing her index finger at my nose, and making pew, pew noises.

If this is what the security guards were worried
I’d find, I’m rather disappointed.

“Drinking
on the job again?” I ask.

“Again implies I’ve done it before. Which
I have not, unless you count that time the guava kale juice fermented, which I
don’t, because it only counts as drinking if I enjoy the alcohol. Also, all
whiskey was consumed off-premise.”

“So you’re
drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m barely buzzed enough to be
able to tolerate you.”

I eye her,
and decide she’s telling the truth. Her eyes are too focused and her tongue’s
too sharp for her to be drunk. I can’t even smell anything on her. Tired,
maybe, but not drunk.

“Was it
organic?” I ask dryly.

“It’s
whiskey, dickhead.”

Christ,
that mouth. I want to lick it and tape it shut all at the same time. “You
shouldn’t call your superiors names.”

She blows a
raspberry. The sight of her ripe pink tongue makes my cock leap to attention.

“Looking
for disciplinary action?” I murmur.

“Oh, don’t
you wish.” The elevator dings, and she lists inside. I’d try to catch her, but
frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing her crash to the ground.

She comes
to a solid stop at the railing along the back paneled wall. “And you’re not my
superior,” she says.

“I write
your paycheck.”

“Not yet
you haven’t.” Spittle shouldn’t be sexy, but her second raspberry gives me a
longer look at her tongue. I remember that tongue. Long as a lizard’s, hot as a
volcano, talented as a porn star.

That’s as
complimentary as I get where Bro Berger is concerned.

“So Mr.
Liver-bellied Bratwurst-runner-away-er,” she says, “wouldn’t you be happier
owning a grocery store that I don’t work for? Because I’m sure we can find
another zagillionaire to take your place.”

I punch the
button to the eighteenth floor—where the fresh greens for tomorrow are being
picked and packed right now, if all’s on schedule—and give her my worst smile.
“Aw, Bro, your inflated opinion of my bank account is touching.”

“You could
be a mega-ka-billion-trillionaire, and you still wouldn’t have enough money to
buy a soul.”

I’m
relatively new to the ranks of the ten-figure club, but it’s still been years
since anyone has insulted me to my face.

Her blatant
hatred is oddly erotic. “Who needs a soul when I have the power to sack
tempestuous employees?”

“Go ahead.
I dare you.” She bangs the button for the fourth floor. Then the third, fifth,
seventh, ninth, and every odd number to the top. With a frown, she draws her
hand down the row of even numbers until every single floor is lit, and if I’d
still thought this was alcohol motivating her, the sharp, devious intention in
her cold eyes removes any doubt.

She’s fully
in control and she’s intentionally trying to bait me.

Heat creeps
over my scalp. It’s working.

She’s
making this elevator stop on Every. Single. Fucking. Floor.

I whip out
my cell phone—security can override her little prank—but as the doors close, my
signal dies.

She does
the MC Hammer dance, and her breasts jiggle under her swishy spring dress in a
way even a celibate Tibetan monk couldn’t resist. There’s no fucking way she’s
wearing a bra.

My cock twitches
harder.

How did a
woman so insanely evil land the world’s most perfect tits?

“Go on,
rich boy.” She switches to the Lawnmower, and now her hips are rocking it too.
“Buy your way out of that.”

Good Chase, the businessman, the gaming tech genius, the
face I show the world, the smarter part of my brain, hops off when the doors
open on the second floor, because he appreciates stairs and getting the hell
away from this deranged woman.

Bad Chase, though, has possessed my body, and keeps me
in the elevator.

I wave
goodbye to rational thought and better judgment—who needs those bitches
anyway?—and turn to Bro with a growl.

Huh.
Emergency stop button works, but it’s a little choppy on the execution. Better
have maintenance look at that tomorrow.

I take one
large, purposeful step toward Bro.

She fists
her hands on her hips and calls me an asshole with her dark, heavy-lidded,
fuck-me bedroom eyes.

Yeah.

She’s
feeling it too.

That pull.
That hate. That inexplicable force of rage that can only be satiated with a
hard, hot fuck.

Author Bio

Pippa Grant is a stay-at-home mom and housewife who loves to
escape into sexy, funny stories way more than she likes perpetually cleaning
toothpaste out of sinks and off toilet handles. When she’s not reading,
writing, sleeping, or trying to prepare her adorable demon spawn to be
productive members of society, she’s fantasizing about chocolate chip cookies.